I was a little worried the next morning when a couple of cops came in for a coffee break—I was afraid they’d be able to tell we had a poached tree—but once they took a look at the Apsaras cookies, they didn’t even notice the pine tree underneath. “You gonna sell these kind of cookies?” one asked. “We might. Come back next week and find out,” I said. Since Uncle had worked through the night supervising the bakers, he slept through the morning rush, when all three of us were waiting on customers, Anita barely able to ring up each sale fast enough before another customer pushed to the front of the line clutching a pink box full of pastry. Then he didn’t come in for the noon rush either. All week, we’d had great crowds, but Uncle never saw any of them. I wondered if this were part of his penance or if he were trying to avoid me, or if, perhaps, he really enjoyed his rounds more than standing behind the counter ringing up sales. I was pleased with the success, but I was already growing a little restless.
